Midnight's Path, Part One
by Amigodude
Summary: Before she was Balalaika, she was "Sonya", the Marshall's granddaughter. Desperate for military glory, she disobeys orders and ventures into the "devil's nest" - Afghanistan - to seek her destiny.
1. Chapter 1

**MIDNIGHT'S PATH, PART ONE**

**CHAPTER ONE**

**1972**

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* * *

**

"Is this seat taken?"

Lavrenti Sarychin's high forebrow furrowed as he looked up, and the edges of the papers stacked in his lap crinkled in his moist grasp.

"No," Sarychin said slowly, as if he regretted the seat's availability, as Valery Sokolov certainly did. He lowered himself slowly beside Sarychin, cursing his luck. If only Sokolov hadn't let himself be delayed by that brown haired secretary. Now he was stuck at the far end of the front row with the Buzzard.

Sarychin hunched his shoulders up around his ears as he returned to pick at his documents. Sokolov was a large man, and Sarychin shifted to the edge of his seat, away from the massive presence of his fellow officer.

The noisy crowd of men was seated in a tight array of metal chairs at the far end of the cavernous hangar beyond the parked helicopters. Their voices echoed through the oily air and off the curved roof while the technicians hustled about, setting up lights around the podium.

Sokolov glanced at his watch and shook his head. Ten minutes had passed, too slowly. To have the ailing Marshall Volkov deliver a congratulatory address was an unusual honor for the newly graduated officers of the Ryazan Higher Airborne School, but he wished their commander woud hurry up. Looking back over his shoulder, Sokolov saw the amused looks of his comrades. They took unnecessary joy in his seating predicament.

"How did the examination go?" Sokolov asked after the twentieth minute ticked away.

"Eh, what's that?" Sarychin said. The man moved sluggishly, lifted his drooping eyes which had been fixed wholly on the held papers. "Well, I'm here aren't I? A second lieutenant in the Desantnik, commissioned just like you. You and the rest couldn't grind me down, you bastards."

Sokolov showed his teeth, the smile of a predator faced with difficult prey. "We all serve the Soviet Union, even bootlickers like you."

Sarychin hissed through the front gap in his teeth. "Choose your words carefully, comrade. Airborne's only the beginning for me, a necessary trial I had to endure. My orders came through today. I've been transferred out of this hellhole. It's the black beret for me, not the blue. Don't worry, though. I'll remember all my old 'friends' in the VDV if we ever cross paths again."

"Let's hope we don't," said Sokolov with the flat tone of finality and turned his broad shoulders away. So Sarychin was going to be a Chekist. The choice was appropriate; Sarychin had been always been the first to slack off, and the first to step forward with a tale to the drill sergeants – until the entire squad had beaten Sarychin senseless in the bunkroom as an object lesson.

But somehow the man had persisted through the difficult training at the Airborne School, a mystery to Sokolov who had strenuously made Sarychin's existence a living hell.. The family connections the man had bragged about had finally come through, the transfer was a fast track to the murky intrigues of the KGB.

Well, the 138th Parachute Regiment would be better off without the Buzzard, Sokolov decided with satisfaction.

There was a loud burst of static from the microphones at the podium. The lights dimmed. Sokolov looked to the stage for the usual pomp of the honor guard, but instead of another dreary bootlicker like Sarychin, she appeared.

She came through the side door, opposite of where Sokolov was sitting, dressed in the uniform of the Young Pioneers. The blue skirt flared as the white stockinged legs swung up with locked knee and then down with balletic precision into the concrete flooring. The long red scarf bounced in unison with the astounding cascade of golden hair under the tilted blue beret.

Perhaps if there had been a childish energy in her movements, or at least precocious mimicry, the onlooking soldiers would have glanced away with the mild amusement of cynicysm and returned to their discussions. But the girl moved with the gravity of the number one sentry at Lenin's Tomb. By the time she reached the podium, the eyes of the entire audience were fixed upon her.

The girl spun about by the blood red flag of the Soviet Union to face the gathered men. The black polished shoes snapped against the floor, like a whipcrack in the still air of the hangar. The right hand, palm down, whipped up to her head, not quite touching the right temple.

Sokolov's mouth hung open as something primal, something older than the flaccid political dogma of the party seeped through his nervous system. She was looking right at him with blue eyes so deep they drove right through him.

The way the light framed the girl's raised face, the way the mane of hair flared out like a halo, this was Mother Motherland herself, reborn, as he had seen her as a child. Rising in all her glory from the heights above Volgograd with concrete sword outstretched against all enemies.

Without conscious thought Sokolov rose to his feet. Ramrod straight, he snapped a salute back in response.

Alongside and behind him, the newly minted officers of the Air Assault Forces of the Union of Socialist Social Republics to a man followed his example- all but Sarychin. With a start and a muttered exclamation, Sarychin sprung to his feet, the note of single discord trailing the united whole as he pushed back his metal chair with a screech.

The Soviet anthem thundered over the PA system. Marshall Volkov with an entourage of heavily braided officers toddled out the side door where moments before the girl had appeared. The Marshall caught her eye as he passed and offered her a slight smile. Something in her faced softened as the much older man passed.

"Who the hell's the little cunt?" hissed Sarychin.

You piece of shit, thought Sokolov, still unable to take his eyes away from the goddess who demanded his sole attention. In that moment he found himself intensely hating Sarychin beyond all reason, beyond even the vile behavior that had earned Sarychin the hatred of his entire class. All she had to do was focus those beautiful eyes upon him only, tilt the chin in shared understanding, and Sokolov would rip the Buzzard limb from limb for such an insult.

But Sokolov regained control over himself with an almost physical effort. The girl stood motionless by the flag, and the fit of rage passed. Looking around, Sokolove noticed he was not the only one who had been affected. Men quickly wiped brows and shuffled their feet.

"That must be Marshal Volkov's granddaughter," he said.

**1977**

* * *

The tall girl with the long blond hair pulled back was still seated on the grass by the inside curve of the track, slowly pulling off her sweat pants one leg at a time. Her eyes focused intently on the starter as he fumbled with the starting pistol.

The athletes milled about. A small girl wearing a blue Romanian jersey burst into short sprint and then pranced back to the starting line, kicking her heels. The other leggy runners walked onto the track and shook out their limbs.

"Runners, take your lanes!" shouted the starter.

Seven of the the athletes took up their positions in the assigned lanes, the Romanian runner was in the first spot. Next to her, the second lane was empty.

From his post just beyond the track, Captain Konev wondered just what the fiery Sofiya was planning. None of the coaches had noticed the odd behavior.

The starter raised the gun into the air. "Runners, get set!"

The flat crack, a puff of smoke burst into the air. The Romanian girl had her head down and was quick off the line, arms and legs pumping. But Sofiya had stepped into the first lane before the runner could react.

The Romanian went sprawling with a screech. A second shot rang out. All the runners trotted to a halt. Sofiya stood calmly in the track and shrugged. Konev admired the look that blossomed over her face as the officials and coaches swarmed about. She even managed to bring both hands up to her mouth as if contrite. Konev knew better.

Five minutes later after a shouting match between the coaches and officials and a warning given to Sofiya, all the runners lined up and the gun went off.

The Romanian took an immediate ten meter lead coming off the curve. The other runners clumped together with Sofiya loping along on the outside of the group.

Konev, bemused, leaned up against the outer fence, curious in spite of himself to see how the race would play out.

The Romanian churned through the first lap. The bell rang. Within moments, the string of runners rumbled by in pursuit of the leader. Sofiya held off the shoulder of the second runner. She was a head taller than all the other female athletes.

With two hundred meters to go, Konev understood why he had heard somone refer to the Romanian as the Hummingbird. The small girl's legs were a blur as she rounded the corner and into the final stretch.

But Sofiya was on the move. She bridged the gap between the nearest runner and the leader without any visible effort. The Romanian must have heard the approaching footsteps because panic began to tie up her arms and head.

Ten meters. The two were now side by side, elbows colliding. Sofiya's expression was serenely relaxed as she crossed the line without bothering to lean. The Romanian girl made a final effort and dived across the finishline in Sofiya's wake. For her efforts the Romanian went face first into the cinder track again.

Sofiya saved her smile until she was off the track, but it slid off as she saw Konev.

Her greeting was direct, as piercing as her eyes. "Was it quick?"

"Yes," said Captain Konev, taking off his hat. "Your grandfather, Marshal Volkov – hero of the Soviet Union died in his beloved garden this morning. I found him with a rose in his hand. I've come to take you home."

"I have no home." Sofiya bent to pick up the gym bag. "Gromyko made it quite clear the summer house would be his when Grampapa died. I cannot go to Kiev either. My uncle has no room in his heart for me. I remind him too much of my father."

Konev cleared his throat. She was taking the news without any visible emotion. He was afraid of what was to follow.

"What about the Sports Club?" he offered. "With your abilities, the system will take care of you. You have all the talent and ability to go as far as the Olympics."

"So much so I'm accused of using drugs all the time," said Sofiya sharply. Her head was down and she was rummaging about the large sports bag hanging from her shoulder.

"Oh, is that what the business with the Romanian was about?" asked Konev. "I felt like I was watching a cat toy with a mouse."

"I had to do more than beat the Hummingbird," said Sofiya. "I had to humiliate and break her, as she's tried to do to me with her foul little mouth. This afternoon her downfall was my goal. I have no interest in athletics at all."

She pulled out of the bag a pair of track spikes. The shoes made a lazy arc into a nearby garbage can.

"Don't do this, _Sonya_," said Konev. "There's nothing for you in the military, nothing at all. No matter your performance, no matter your ability, when the time for promotions comes you'll find your father's shadow to be a visible presence forever on your shoulder. Do you really want to waste away in some provincial posting in Siberia?"

Sofiya loosened her golden hair.

"All my ancestors have served Russia," she said. "Am I to be less than them? Wasn't I first in my DOSAAF class to achieve the award of a Voroshilov Sharpshooter? Wasn't I first in academics among my peers in the Komsomol? When the boys faltered in the parachute training for the Ossoaviakhim, wasn't I first off the jump tower?"

"Yes," said Konev. "But..."

"I won't race again," said Sofiya, "but I'll show them talent. I'll be the next sniper queen just like Lyudmilla. I could go to the Army and get a commission of at least a warrant officer if I shoot for the ZSKA sports team. I won't do clerical work, or be some general's toy."

"Then it's the army," Konev sighed, but then her saw her face.

The tears were streaming down her cheek but her voice was steady. "No, not the army. Take me to Ryazan. I'm old enough to volunteer. Like my Papa, like my Grampapa - It's the Airborne or nothing."

Konev knew better than to waste his words arguing with the granddaughter of Marshall Volkov. He followed Sofiya to the car.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

**1982**

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The bathroom stall door crashed open.

The figure yelped as she was hauled forth and slammed with a breath taking thump against the moldy wall. Her head rolled about as she tried to determine who the bulkily clad attackers were, but the flickering light gave no clue. Their eyes were hard beneath the fur hats they wore against the cold.

"Corporal," Sofiya said. "I think we found the deserter. Take a look around. Find out if an old man's about, or at least the nearest janitor. Move quickly, there's very little time before the convoys move out."

"Yes, Warrant Officer," snapped the corporal and ran from the bathroom.

The captive found her voice. A stream of shrill curses poured forth, echoing loudly in the small space.

Sofiya moved swiftly, her arm whipped up so that the inner part of the hand met the captive's throat. The curses stopped with a gurgle.

"Do you want them to hear you?" Sofiya said softly. The restrained figure shook her head rapidly. The eyes were open so wide they looked like marbles.

"My soldiers are going to release you," said Sofiya. The words were wrapped in a cloud of condensation in the cold air. "Then you're going to talk. Play dumb or keep talking in that gypsy babble – and I'll tell the guards you resisted arrest. And do you know what they'll do to you?"

"I'm no gypsy," gasped the woman. "I'm Private Mirela Colibrescu, assigned to Bagram Air Base as a radio operator for the Romanian forces assigned to the limited contingent…"

"Shut up," said Sofiya tonelessly. She pressed her hand slightly into the woman's throat once more and the smaller woman stopped talking instantly. Suddenly Sofiya bent over so the two were almost nose to nose. A tight smile hinted at a private joke only the Russian was enjoying. The Romanian shivered.

"Well, Private Colibrescu," Sofiya said. "They've given up looking for you already these last few days, or so I've heard. Already listed as missing in action, snatched up by the Afghan bandits, which means you're a non-person and in terrible danger."

"What do you mean?" the woman whispered. The unexpected smile unnerved her more than anything else.

"Let her go," commanded Sofiya. "I want to talk to this one."

Mirela slumped to the cold tiles as the assailants stepped back. Some moved to the broken mirrors and sinks lining the wall. When they took off the fur hats and made unenthusiastic attempts at fixing their hair, Mirela realized these were all women.

Sofiya poked Mirela with the rounded tip of her steel shod boot.

"What I mean is this," said Sofiya speaking to gathered women. "The bandits are the least of it. If the garrison finds our international friend skulking about, at this point they won't turn you over to the local policeman – there aren't any. These sex starved maniacs will hang you up in the cellar and use you like meat. That'll be the end of little Private Colibrescu."

There was an outburst of cruel laughter from the women.

"I can't do it," gasped Mirela. "I can't go into the hell mouth. They told us stories – I thought they were trying to scare us. I didn't believe it until we came up to the entrance and they were taking out five men on stretchers. A tank crew, they choked on diesel fumes when they got stuck in the tunnel. Against regulations to shut down the engines, so they left the engines running… I hid as best I could. There's a storage closet down the hall…"

"So you hid," nodded Sofiya. Her eyes were dispassionate as she examined Mirela. The Romanian's lips were blue, she was shivering uncontrollably. "Poor little fool. So the Hummingbird lost her nerve. You always were all talk."

"What!" Mirela looked up. "How do you know – who are – you're that Pavlovena bitch, oh shit!"

"I couldn't find anyone, Warrant Officer – they're all outside working," said the corporal, tucking in a strand of mousy brown hair beneath the ear flap of the hat. "So what do we do with the deserter?"

"I'll meet you outside," said Sofiya. The group filed out without a look spared for the huddled figure in the corner.

Sofiya pulled the great coat tight around her tall body.

"This is simple," said Sofiya looking in a triangular shard of mirror, barely hanging on the wall. She adjusted the thick wool scarf about her neck. Only one side of her face could be viewed in the remaining sliver, for some reason it bothered her. "Get up and we'll get through the tunnel together and down to Bagram Airbase with an explanation for your absence. Otherwise, take your chances. I won't waste time reporting we found you."

Sofiya stepped out into the hallway and let the door swing shut. She didn't have long to wait. Mirela burst through the door moments later.

"Please," the Romanian begged. "Don't leave me here."

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"Get her a coat," ordered Sofiya and strode off.

The northern approach to Salang Tunnel was a chaotic scene. Long lines of oil tankers, trucks, and the low slung silhouettes of the armored personnel carriers curved out of sight in the blowing snow. The wind howled without relief, buffeting the crowd with gusts of diesel exhaust from the running engines. Work crews ran frantically about, the group of women had to step aside as a dump truck went by in in reverse, the back tilted so the men on the truck bed could shovel dirt off with greater speed.

"Why the hell are we supposed to get this deserter a coat?" complained one of the women. They trudged up the incline away from the barracks nestled against the jagged mountains, chins tucked into the collar of their coats, only another group among the many streaming in both directions.

"Because the old lady said so," snapped the corporal. They stopped to pick up backpacks and rifles left in a row on a muddied snowbank. "Her rules are the only rules. Everyone gets a chance, no one gets left behind."

"Who are you people?" stammered Mirela, gratefully taking the offered long coat pulled out of a pack. The women huddled together for warmth and lit up cigarettes. "Are those guns?"

"Of course they're guns. It's a fucking war, you idiot," said the corporal intent on the comforting taste of her cigarette. "Rear service support, assigned to the Kabul Southwest Camp to do the fucking paperwork. We're supposed to fly in from Takshent, everything got screwed up – they kept pushing us back. So the old lady decides to go cross-country across Afghanistan and who are we to argue with her? She's says go and you go. She's been trying to get down here since it started."

The old lady was obviously Sofiya, decided Mirela – though she seemed too young, how long had her former competitor been in the service? But she was baffled. Who in their right mind would volunteer for service in this cesspit of a country? What kind of woman could lead a squad of women into a war-zone with their complete confidence?

"Can I have a cigarette?" she asked tentatively.

"No," said the corporal and blew smoke towards Mirela. They stood in silence and watched the commotion. Engines were beginning to rev, officers were shouting. The crowd was dispersing to their vehicles.

"Let's go," Sofiya came running out from between the vehicles and waved vigorously. "Move it! Move it! The snow's been cleared. We've got a ride up front. We're going through."

They piled into the rear of a rusted GAZ-66 troop carrier, parked in a small gravelled area at the rear of the decrepit concrete slab of a guardhouse flanking the tunnel entrance. Mirela was last, no one offered her a hand, but before she could scramble up the back gate, Sofiya grabbed her by the shoulder. The fingers dug in with the strength of iron and Mirela winced.

"You're with me in the front," Sofiya said. "My soldiers don't have the patience. They'd toss you out halfway through the tunnel and enjoy the screams. Wouldn't you, girls?"

Mirela turned red at the jeers. She was dragged to the side door and flung into the cab which was thick with smoke and wailing music.

"Driver, girl, girl, driver," shouted Sofiya as way of introduction and pushed the Romanian in. Mirela was squeezed in between the driver and the Russian. Sofiay shoved a long heavy case on top of the smaller woman and slammed the door shut. "Hold this. Hey! Her legs aren't the gear shaft – no touching."

The Uzbek driver pulled back his upper lip, perhaps it was meant as a smile. The man was unshaven and his thick coveralls were caked in mud and oil. A cigarette dangled from his what remained of his stained teeth..

"What do you have in this thing?" complained Mirela slapping away the Uzbek's wandering hand. "It weighs a ton."

"Four and a half kilos – plus the ammo and accessories," said Sofiya absently. She was looking out the side window. Her gloved hand left a clear trail through the ice crystals on the window. "There they go – blue berets, the only ones I've seen since Takshent – those are Sokolov's boys, the 138th Airborne. I knew they'd been deployed at last."

"What's so important about them?" asked Mirela and instantly wilted under the glare.

"Because I'm Airborne," Sofiya said proudly and pulled back the collar of her coat to reveal the blue and white striped paratroopers vest underneath. "But I got assigned to the regular infantry after graduation, women auxiliaries don't get combat assignments, no matter how good they are. Driver! I don't care who you cut off, even if it's a general. Get behind that last BMD."

Mirela poked her head about the rucksack and looked. It was a mistake. So far she had avoided looking, keeping her head down all the way from the barracks. A whine rose involuntarily from deep within her.

The entrance of the Salang Tunnel curved up before them in a soaring arch of concrete, painted a faded blue. At that moment the cloud cover broke and the soaring, white peaked tips the Hindu Kush blazed with the reflected light of the sun, all except the devouring maw of blackness carved into the depths of the mountain.

Sofiya heard and pulled away from the window. She pulled off her glove. Mirela felt the strong hand take hers by her side, unseen to the driver.

"It's the mouth of hell," Mirela said.

"Then let's go to hell together," said Sofiya.

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"Did you qualify?"

"What?" Sofiya felt Mirela start, the rapid pattern of breathing that had been audible even over the loud music halted as the Romanian struggled for words.. "Oh, I qualified for the Moscow Olympics – as an alternate. But Nicu found out I had a lover – and it wasn't him."

"Nicu," said Sofiya. The truck heaved from one pothole to the next, the headlights bounced across the tunnel walls. "Ceauşescu's boy? I thought he liked gymnasts?"

"He liked me," said Mirela after a long pause. There was a light ahead, they were near the end of the tunnel "Suddenly I tested positive for steroids and I was off the Olympic team with no future. It was the army for me. What about you?"

"Not athletics," said Sofiya promptly. "I qualified first for the Soviet team in sport pistol and rifle. But the review board said I didn't display proper devotion to the study of Marxism, I wasn't quite a proper role model for the youth of the nation. I lacked a proper upbringing in a loving Leninist home, all sorts of lies like that. Oddly enough there were no slots on the team… even though I passed ALL the drug tests."

"You could try again," offered Mirela, passing over the implied insult. "There's always '84 in America. As for me, I'm done. I'll never get another chance."

"Be quiet," Sofiya snapped. The driver was cursing. He slammed on the brakes and they were tossed forward against the dashboard as the BMD in front of them slewed to a stop. Angry shouts came from the back of the truck as the women were thrown about.

The diesel laden air of the tunnel pressed down upon them with the full weight of the mountain, there was a roar and a bright flash that filled the cab like lightning.

Sofiya pulled the shrieking Mirela out the side door and thrust her up against the tunnel wall. The truck behind their vehicle tried to pull around and caught the bumper of the GAZ-66 with an ear breaking screech of metal on metal. Inches away from where they were pressed against the tunnel side the front of the truck slammed into the wall. The headlights went out.

Sofiya's soldiers were screaming. The foul air filled her lungs and she retched, she pressed her mouth into the wool scarf. There were more explosions, waves of hot air slammed into them. This was no time to hesitate, they would die if she didn't move.

One hand dragged the Romanian along like a sack of potatoes, the other slid along the side of the truck as she moved to the rear of the truck. Out of the darkness other hands grabbed hers, the corporal shouted and Sofiya shouted back. The meaning of the words were lost, the women threw themselves out of the truck.

She led them forward in a chain towards the light, the light of the tunnel exit. They did not look back at the fiery, beating red heart of the beast behind them, did not listen to the rising screams of men engulfed in the flames.

They were outside. The cold fresh air was a blessing, Sofiya let go and the line of women careened into a snowbank without her guidance and collapsed in a sprawl of shuddering limbs. She looked and like a good commander counted who was left.

"Where's Tatiana," Sofiya shouted. Mirela rolled over blinking stupidly, she still clutched Sofiya's case. "Where the hell's Tatiana?"

Black oily smoke coughed out in waves from the Salang Tunnel with each new explosion.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

Sofiya recovered quickly. She was first into the nearby guardhouse with the coughing Mirela in tow. The suprised guards were pushed aside and Mirela seated roughly in front of the radio.

"Get 40th Army on the line," she told the Romanian before heading back to her squad. "We need medevac, we need heavy equipment, whatever's nearby. Now! This is what you do, do it. I've no more time to hold hands."

Sofiya made for the tunnel entrance, detemined to plunge back into the mouth of the inferno to find the missing Tatiana, but already a massive T-72 was rolling into position, blocking the southern entrance. Soldiers crouched by the metal flanks of the tank with drawn weapons.

"They think it's a bandit attack," she told her corporal later. "No one goes in, those are the orders. We wait…"

She turned away abruptly and almost stumbled over the legs of a man sprawled in the snow. Closer examination revealed it was the driver of the truck, babbling and grateful to be alive.

Throughout the evening and into the long hours of the night they worked, lost among the toiling soldiers who swarmed about the southern entrance. Makeshift stretchers were assembled from whatever materials could be put together. The burned victims who staggered out needed assistance but there was little anyone could do. Screams and moans of agony echoed off the sides of the mountains. Whatever medical supplies could be found were quickly used up.

Morning came as a shade of grey and with it two MI-8 medevac helicopters, struggling through the thin air of the Hindu Kush. They dropped body bags and then lumbered away, unable to land anywhere in the difficult terrain.

"Where the hell are they going?" the corporal said. Sofiya shook her head. "They can't fly away like that. What are we supposed to do with the wounded? What are we supposed to do?"

Orders finally came and the tank pulled back, rescue crews plunged in. The dead were carried out in increasing numbers and stacked in the waiting trucks.

"Tatiana," said Sofiya and jerked her hand back. The corporal lurched aside and threw up.

Sofiya closed the flap of the body bag.

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

Dismayed, Sofiya dropped the unopened rations into the footwell. The stamp on the tin read "1944."

"Grandpapa ate this crap," she muttered, and rubbed at her face. Her fingers came back red from the road dust. Better to go hungry than eat such fare. Was this the best the Soviet Union could do for the troops stationed in Kabul? The back of the truck was packed high with inedible relics from the Great War.

The truck was at the back of the convoy, no other vehicles were behind them. They lurched down a cratered road, hollowed out of a cliffside that literally hung over them. On the driver's side, the wheels of the truck were inches from the precipice that dropped down into a barren landscape of snow-covered stone, ripped and torn apart by narrow fissures and gorges.

If only she had been more in control in the tunnel she would not have lost Tatiana. For a moment, when Sofiya had seen the body, she had thought Tatiana was only unconscious. She had reached out to Tatiana, to touch her cheek, and the head had flopped over. The right side of the woman's face face had been burnt to a blackened crisp.

The smell had been the worst, like overcooked pork. Better to be dead than to live with such a disfigurement, Sofiya decided. She'd put a bullet through her head before she'd become the object of pity and covert stares.

Mirela snored loudly, audible over the grinding of the truck's engine. Her head lolled against Sofiya's shoulder. Annoyed, Sofiya thought about pushing back but decided it was an unworthy gesture.

"Where the hell are we, comrade driver?" she asked the driver. "This can't possibly be the way to Kabul. Why didn't you wake me?"

The Uzbek driver shrugged, the cloud of cigarette smoke engulfing his head barely shifted. "I follow the leader. Not important. They say more accidents on main road, so they take a shortcut."

"A shortcut," said Sofiya blankly.

"Don't worry," said the driver. With a grin as oily as the stains on his pants, he patted the holstered firearm at his side. "I protect you from the _dukhis_."

Sofiya's bark of laughter was cut off as without warning the truck engine sputtered and went silent. Mirela started awake with a dazed look that quickly became one of alarm as the truck coasted to a stop.

"Damn it all," cursed the driver and pounded the steering wheel in frustration. "I knew something wrong back at tunnel. I should have checked."

The corporal poked her head through the back slot of the truck cab. "What going on?"

"Everyone out," Sofiya ordered. "Corporal, have the soldiers take up position while this fool of a driver fixes the damn thing. We're in bandit territory, no one leaves the truck without a gun. Private, get on the short wave and let them know we've got problems back here."

"It's broken," announced Mirela after a moment wrestling with the radio rig.

Sofiya shook her head. The way ahead opened up and the road slithered along the ravine, up to a jagged outcropping of rock two hundred meters away. The last BMD of the column was about to turn out of sight around the sharp curve.

"They don't know we're here," Sofiya said and grabbed the case. She slung it over her shoulder. "Private, you're with me. Those tracks are barely moving, we'll have no trouble catching them if we run. Let's go."

They both were walking by the time they reached the outcropping. The air was thinner than expected, the roadway had been churned to clinging mud by the convoy and they had to go single file against the side of the mountain. Sofiya noted a narrow opening between the outcropping and a large boulder that turned into a weaving pathway up the ridge. Small patches of melting snow showed traces of footprints on the rough trail and her brow creased.

"Won't they be surprised to see us," said Mirela in between wheezes. The Romanian was obviously no longer the world class athlete she once had been. "Hello boys, for a kiss can we get a ride?"

"Comrade private," said Sofiya. "I was under orders to wait for a flight out of Takshent. Instead, I've lost a soldier and stranded the rest in bandit territory. The last thing I want to do is explain my actions to whoever's in charge of the convoy. They'll radio ahead and then I'm in the shit. At the very least I'll be sent back for disciplinary measures. So spare me the childish prattle."

"Sorry, comrade warrant officer," said Mirela. "I was trying to make a joke. I didn't think."

"Don't waste your breath, I don't need pity." Sofiya said sharply, putting aside her uneasy thoughts about the tracks she had seen on the trail. "I'm responsible for my command and I failed them. Now, let's try not to get shot by a gunner."

Mirela mumbled something indistinct under her breath.

"Did you say something, private?"

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

They rounded the curve. The line of vehicles had halted not far ahead. A dozen or so fuel vehicles in the middle, the low slung BMDs at the front and rear with soldiers clustered in groups on top of the fighting vehicles.

Sofiya began to raise her hand. There was a whoosh and a crash and the BMD vehicle they were approaching blew apart. The impact knocked Sofiya and Mirela off their feet.

Sofiya rolled over by Mirela. The Romanian was crouched on her knees in the mud of the road, cradling a bloodied arm to her breast. The woman's mouth was open in a grimace of pain, but no sound came out. A rock shattered by Sofiya's boot, and fragments tore into the leather tip. She felt it and looked down. They were under attack. Sofiya grabbed Mirela by the collar and dragged her towards the cover of the sheltering rocks as the bullets snapped by.

More explosions rocked the ravine as RPG rounds slammed into the two lead fuel trucks, smoke and flame belched up into the sky. Soldiers were tumbling off the vehicles in a panic. She watched as man after man slumped to the roadside under the relentless metal hail.

Sofiya took a breath and choked on the stench of burning diesel. They weren't safe, so she pushed Mirela in between two boulders and left her there. She began to crawl forward. Then Sofiya thought to herself how foolish the action was, wiggling about as if she was a worm while totally exposed to the gunfire pouring down from above. If she was dead, how could she be here, how could she be?

"While I am, there is no death," she said and stood up.

The soliders milled about beside the halted convoy. Most took shelter on the slope and sought refuge among the rocks and shrubs. Others clustered behind the BMDs, few returned fire, those who did shot wildly about. Sofiya felt a hot rush of anger. These were the desantniks, the air assault troops of the Soviet Union, and they were pinned down like rank conscripts. Someone had to take charge or they were all going to be slaughtered in these wretched mountains.

The men huddled behind the wreck of the rear BMD looked up wide eyed as Sofiya walked up to them with no concern at all for the gunfire. It must have seemed to them that she had appeared out of thin air. "The bandits are up in those rocks. Return fire!" She pointed up the steep slope. "Pull yourself together, where's your sergeant?"

"Dead," grunted a man pre-occupied with reloading his assault rifle to look up. He flung the gun aside with a curse. "Damn piece of crap."

Sofiya snatched up a rifle from the ground, slammed the magazine in and moved to his side. The soldier had lost his helmet revealing a pressed down military cut of dark, brown hair. He blinked at the unexpected apparition crouched near him.

"Here, take this," Sofiya said. "What's your name?"

"Boris."

"Who's in command here," she shouted.

"Captain Rodenskoi and his second are in the lead vehicle," announced Boris.

"Are they fools?" she shouted. She ran alongside the burning trucks towards the command vehicle, bristling with tall antennae "That's a total violation of orders, what if they get hit…"

The lead BMD exploded. Debris rained down upon the column, the gun turret rolled down the slope in a loud series of metallic clangs. They could hear the screams of the trapped men inside as they roasted within the burning vehicle. Vladilena lunged forward to help, but Boris pulled her back to cover. The soldier had followed her.

"The ammo," he shouted. The heat was cooking off the stored rounds, it sounded like a drumroll. "You can't help them."

"Then who's in charge?" she shouted back. "Where are the other officers?"

"There's no one else," Boris said. He eyed the epaulets on her coat. "It appears you are the commanding officer."

"Good." Sofiya took a deep breath and spoke. "Get the men up and moving. I want them off the road, they're exposed and the fuel trucks are a menace. I need everyone in those rocks shooting up at those damn bandits. I need two men to go with me down the road. I saw a path, I'm going up."

"Who the hell are you?" asked one of the soldiers nearby.

"I'm the bitch of war, and you're my dogs!" Sofiya told him loudly enough so the others would hear. She didn't wait to see what impact the words had as she was too busy opening the case and heaving out what she had carried all the way from Takshent.

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

The weapon was over four feet in length, a customized rifle.

Sofiya's first love had been the Dragunov SVD, not any of the awkward pimply boys of the Komsomol she simply had no time for. Countless hours had been spent as a teenager shooting under the patient eye of Captain Konev at Grandpapa's dacha. She soon surpassed her teacher, hitting bullseyes at ranges beyond the standard of the Dragunov.

She may have been bypassed by the selection committee for the Olympics, but she had impressed one group of designers at Izmash while on a DOSAAF field trip to the gun factory. When she made suggestions, they listened and created a weapon to her exact specifications – perhaps because of the stern expression on Marshal Volkov's face that brooked no dissent. Instead of the classic wood, the metal stock could fold to the right side. The barrel was shorter, as was the flash hider. There was no lug for the bayonet which Sofiya regarded as impractical. Even the rifle scope she had chosen to take to Afghanistan was not standard military, the best made by VOMZ with a German post reticle.

Now Sofiya slung the steel black rifle across her back and led the way up the steep mountain path. The two men tried to follow close behind but were weighed down by their gear, their steps slid back in the unstable mix of sand and gravel, she left them behind in her haste. The last stretch was almost vertical, she pulled herself up onto the ledge.

From here, she could see the broken snake of the convoy below. She was fifty meters behind the Afghans. She counted fifteen in number, some were busy reloading RPG launchers, others were shooting down at the desantniks. Her desantniks, she thought.

Boris and the other soldier scrambled up alongside and crouched, levelling stubby AKS-74u carbines. She stopped them with a gesture, and with a jerk of her head alerted them to the even larger number of Afghans two hundred meters further up the ridge.

"Wait," Sofiya said. She placed the stock of the Dragunov to her shoulder, her eyes narrowed. Among the Afghans on the ridge, a man was clearly silhoutted against the sky – he appeared to be the leader judging by his gestures. She could see him speaking as she placed his head between the horizontal lines, and adjusted for the distance. She squeezed the trigger and saw the Afghan spin and drop.

"What a shot! Balalaika!" exclaimed the other soldier, dropping his head down to avoid the ejected casing of the round.

"Look at them run about," said Boris. "They've no idea where the shot came from."

The attackers were uncertain, looking back towards the ridge. She switched to the smaller group on the ledge, taking advantage of the confusion. The closest Afghan fell, unnoticed by his fellow bandits, their attention was focused above. In quick succession she took down four more men before the screams of the bandits on the ridgetop alerted the group they were being cut down.

Panic seized the bandits, half turned and fled towards their companions. Five of the Mujahideen saw the Russians and charged. Sofiya quickly aimed the gun at the attackers. What appeared to be a small Afghan led them, his face smooth and youthful in the sights of the scope. She couldn't move, her finger was frozen on the trigger. The boy's mouth was open in a shout, he brandished a knife. He was almost on top of her. She couldn't shoot, she was a soldier – not a murderer.

Boris and the other soldier let loose a burst of gunfire as loud as storm thunder in her ears. The onrushing bandits were cut down in their tracks. The boy dropped to his knees and slumped forward. The outstretched hand touched her boot and the knife slipped free.

Shaken, she lowered the Dragunov. The two soldiers ran forward, single shots rang out as killed the wounded and kicked the weapons away. They hadn't noticed her hesitation.

The boy seemed to stared at Sofiya. There was a hole in his head above his blank eyes. His brains were spilled upon the sand and rocks. She looked away and forced the swelling nausea down with an effort. With her boot she brushed the touching hand aside.

Boris came back, his face smeared with sweat and dirt, the teeth flashing in a wide smile. The look in his eyes was one almost of worship. "Well done, Balalaika. Look. They retreat. The _dukhis_ are retreating."

Her thoughts were frozen as her body had been moments ago, why was he calling her Balalaika? But then the realization struck her and she nodded, only a slight movement of the chin. She had the rifle clutched in a death grip and she forced herself to relax. The airborne's nickname for the Dragunov was Balalaika, she was Balalaika.

"We have to go after them," Balalaika said. The Afghans were moving away, fleeing along the ridge away from the Russians.

"What are you talking about," exclaimed the other soldier. "We've won. We should wait for help."

"We've won nothing." said Balalaika. She stood up and stared the man down till he looked away. "Our detachment's cut off, we've no working vehicles. The lead BMD is destroyed and along with it our communications with 40th Army. No one's coming for us except the bandits, they'll be back and in greater numbers by nightfall. We'll run out of ammo and be cold and dead before the sun touches these mountains again."

"What are your orders then?" said Boris.

Balalaika stood up. The road below was blocked by the burning vehicles. She turned her head and saw the lone truck stranded on the stretch behind. With a feeling of relief she realized the women she had led from Takshent hadn't been noticed or attacked by the bandits.

"Bring the platoons up," Balalaika ordered. "Get the wounded. We've no choice, we'll have to leave the dead. See that supply truck over there? Good. They're with us. There's also a Romanian hiding in the rocks. Find her. We're going to chase down these bandits on foot before they recover and show them what happens when you cross swords with the Airborne. Now move!"

Balalaika sounded so much better than Bitch of War, she decided as the two men scrambled down the path. She saw the the bandits, small as miniature toys, stream out of sight into the safety of a nearby canyon. Her eyes narrowed. They would not run away from the fight they had started. She would pursue and destroy.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

"What's the commotion all about?" Major Sokolov said. He rolled out of his bunk, one of the few priviliges of rank.

"Rodenskoi's men are back, they're alive," shouted the soldier and slammed the door.

"Only delaying the inevitable," grumbled Sokolov's adjutant. "God may have skipped them today, but he'll get them next time."

"Ever the pessimist," said Sokolov and adjusted his beret. "Let's go see what's going on."

"Can you blame me?" said the adjutant. "There's something desperately wrong with this war. Do you remember Lobachevsky's last words? 'Allow me to break this connection… I've been killed.' Then silence."

"Comrade Lobachevesky was a man of few words," said Sokolov trying to cover up a yawn. He stood straight up and took a deep breath of the fresh air.

"Major, the snipers," protested the adjustant. He had already taken up the perpetual slouch soldiers took while under fire.

"The hell with them," said Sokolov squinting in the sharp glare.

It was early in the morning. The forward command base of the 138th Airborne was situated to the south of the ghost town of Charikar close by the infamous Route 2 winding its way down from Salang Tunnel The sun touched the snow covered peaks of the mountain range on the horizon. Sokolov could almost believe he was on holiday in the Swiss Alps, the moment had the illusion of peace.

The whole camp had turned out to welcome the unexpected arrivals. It was almost a mob scene with the shouting and cheering going on. Sokolov had an image of the crowd being mortared by the bandits and winced. He turned to the Adjutant.

"Get the officers to break this up now," he snapped. "And get me Rodenskoi if he's still alive, he's got some explaining to do."

The crowd of soldiers was beginning to chant one word over and over. It took a moment for Sokolov to make out what was being shouted.

"Balalaika! Balalaika! Balalaika!"

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"We took a wrong turn," said the corporal "Then we drove around waiting to get blown up.

Sokolov winced at the commonly used phrase, all too accurate. They were seated on campstools in the command bunker.

"All right then, Corporal Boris -," he said. "All the officers killed off in the first few minutes. All the vehicles destroyed or put out of commission. But here you are, all alive and well after a fine hike through the mountains with Massood's criminals nipping at you all the way. I'm putting you up for a promotion as of this moment, though I can't figure out for the life of me what's with that gaggle of prisoners you brought in."

Boris smiled faintly. "I wasn't in charge, comrade Major. We were under orders not to kill anyone who surrendered. Balalaika wouldn't allow it."

Sokolov eyed the corporal intently. This Boris was a solid, capable looking Desantnik, one of those reliable types to be counted on in the front lines. Not the type to show humor in front of his superiors.

"You're the old man of Rodenskoi's troop," said Sokolov. "Who else was there to take charge?"

"Balalaika," said Boris promptly.

"And who the hell's Balalaika?" demanded Sokolov.

"I… I honestly don't know," said the corporal. Beneath the sweat and dirt he appeared to be blushing.

Nonplussed, Sokolov rocked back on the campstool. "What do you mean you don't know, corporal?"

"Well," said Boris. "One second were all down in the dirt getting shot up, the next thing we knew she appeared out of thin air with a Dragunov at the ready and a good idea what to do next. She was the commanding officer. After that we were all too busy trying to survive to ask who she was."

"Why hasn't this 'Balalaika' reported to me," demanded Sokolov.

"I'm sorry, comrade Major," said Boris to the Major's astonishment. "She's sleeping."

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"There's something different about them," said the adjutant.

The remnants of Rodenskoi's company were bivouacked at the edge of the base in a circle of low, brown tents that blended into the landscape. Nearby were a score of dark skinned, ragged looking Afghans, squatting in the dirt. Two hard eyed paratroopers stood guard.

"They've tasted victory," said Sokolov. He'd stood on the outskirts assessing the men and had gone through half a pack of cigarettes in the meantime. "I'd like a taste myself. She must be one hell of a cook. Where is she?"

"In the bunker, comrade Major," said Boris to his right.

"Of course," said Sokolov. Suddenly the layout made sense. The Desantniks had arranged their tents around a bunker they'd claimed as their own, almost as if they were protecting this 'Balalaika.'

The small woman who sprung up and blocked Sokolov's entry to the bunker only confirmed his suspicions. She was a filthy looking excuse of a soldier desperately in need of a bath and a change of clothes. Her uniform wasn't quite right, and it took Sokolov a moment to realize she belonged to the Romanian contingent.

"The Warrant Officer's not to be disturbed," snapped Mirela. Her arm was heavily bandaged almost to the base of her shoulder. She could barely stand, but her eyes were bright with anger at the intrusion. "She hasn't slept in over four days, let her have some rest."

"Stand aside, private," said Sokolov amused at the show of loyalty. Boris gently moved the protesting Mirela aside. Sokolov crouched so he could step into the low roofed bunker and had to stay that way. He was too large to stand straight in the cramped quarters.

The commotion must have woken the woman for she had risen from the pallet. She was tall, probably about 1.8 meters in height. She also had to stoop to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling. He could barely make out her features in the dim lighting.

"Yes, comrade major," she said automatically and began to salute.

"No need for ceremony out here in the field," said Sokolov and offered her a cigarette. "I want to commend you myself on your impressive performance. I've interviewed several of the men and they all agree they wouldn't be here now, if it wasn't for your leadership"

"I serve the Soviet…"

"No need for that crap either," interrupted Sokolov sharply. She hadn't noticed that he had called the soldiers her men. "Who do you think I am? A political officer?"

"No, comrade major."

"Captain Rodenskoi was a piece of shit," said Sokolov. "He's one of the reasons the 105th got ripped apart in the Panjsher Valley. I strongly objected to his re-assignment to the 138th. I knew he'd get himself killed, along with a whole bunch of good soldiers."

"They're the best," she said firmly. "They only needed the right leader."

"Are you the right leader?"

"Yes, comrade major."

Sokolov stared at her. He wished it wasn't so poorly lit in the bunker. The unbrushed hair hung low hiding the woman's eyes. "I'm not entirely convinced."

"Is it because I'm a woman?" she said, her voice tinged with ice. She brushed back the bangs and raised her glance to look directly at him. Sokolov gave a start: she had intense blue eyes.

"It's because you didn't finish the job," said Sokolov, suddenly struggling with the words and feeling awkward. "Forget your sleep. I want to see you outside immediately."

He spun on his heel and left. Where had he seen this woman before?

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"Warrant Officer, what are you going to do?" Sokolov asked and pointed.

Balalaika stared at the silent group of Afghan prisoners. Boris and the others came up behind her.

"I don't understand," she said and shivered. But there was an inner cold rising within that no layers of clothing could heat, she knew where this was going. "They surrendered. I'm a soldier, not a murderer."

"They're fucking bandits," said Sokolov as coarsely as he could. "Forget any romantic twaddle about fairness and fairy tales. Forget all that crap they blather about bringing the joys of socialist brotherhood to this Muslim scum. The time's long past for that shit, its blood and guts out here, and I want it to be their blood and guts. So let me tell you a story, 'Balalaika.' The story of my dear brother: he got captured by bandits on his first patrol in country. Do you know what these mujahideen did?"

"I don't know," said Balalaika.

"They cut clear around his waist, then pulled the skin up above his head and tied it up in a knot. My brother was still alive when they found him, but not for long."

Balalaika pulled the great coat tight.

"We're doing them a kindness," said Sokolov after a pause. "We can't let them go, within a day they'd be taking shots at us from the surrounding hills. And I won't give them over to the Afghan Sarandoi for interrogation per regulations. I may be a hard man, but I'm not a sadist."

A BTR armored personnel carrier pulled up with Sokolov's adjustant in command. The crew on top readied the heavy machine gun. The guards stepped clear.

"We're all soldiers, Balalaika." Sokolov said. "But are you hard enough to be one of us? We didn't start this damn war, the old men in the Kremlin did. We're in the devil's vomit up to our necks. It's either them or us.

Balalaika licked her lips.

"Do it," she said.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

The Makarov gripped in Sarychin's hand had a round chambered. The muzzle of the gun gun was pointed at the intruder.

"What is this all about?" Sarychin demanded. The gun trembled. "Are you blackmailing me?"

"I prefer to think we can come to an agreement," said the man smiling, unfazed by the gun. "May I sit?"

Unable to speak, Sarychin jerked his head.

"Lavrenti Sarychin of the Ninth Directorate," stated the intruder taking a seat. The office was one of the larger ones in the Taj-bek palace, now the headquarters of the 40th Army in Kabul. "Formerly in charge of security to the Soviet embassy in Thailand, now head of the security detail protecting the general staff here in Afghanistan. Unofficially, it seems you have many other gray responsibilities, such as 'Freight 200'."

"The guards won't question why there's a dead Russian in my office," said Sarychin through gritted teeth. A drop of perspiration rolled down his brow. "The furnace room used by the khAD is two floors beneath us."

"My associates and I can help with the shipments of 'Freight 200'," said the man, a civilian, seemingly amused by the threat. He was dressed in an expensive looking suit that Sarychin envied. "Those sealed coffins shipped to Leningrad without any relatives waiting to mourn their lost ones? Our suppliers among these poor exploited people can guarantee a steady supply of heroin, opium, marijuana – anything you like other than body parts."

"I need proof," said Sarychin. "If we're to work together, I need to know who you are."

"What I am is more important," said the visitor. He took off the jacket, undid the tie and unbuttoned the shirt. "Is this proof enough? I'm one who obeys The Thieves Code."

Two stars and a scorpion were tattooed on the visitor's chest. The claws of the scorpion were open, a sign the bearer was ex-military.

Sarychin sat back in his chair and put the gun down carefully on the desk.

"Damn, very well then. But I want a piece of the action, do you understand? I see how things are going back home."

"Things are falling apart," said the visitor buttoning up his shirt and putting his jacket back on. He stood up and went to the door to leave. "We'll be in touch. Our associates in Leningrad have a great interest in how this works out. There may be an opening for a man of your abilities. You come highly recommended. Oh…"

"What is it?" asked Sarychin. The unexpected guest had opened the door a crack and then slammed it shut suddenly.

"There's a young woman waiting outside," said the visitor. "She's a little too sharp with her stare. I'd rather no one knows I'm here."

"What young lady? Oh, the hell with her," it took Sarychin a moment to remember his schedule. Another of the many onerous tasks the General had passed along before fleeing back to Russia for rest and relaxation. If there was an unpleasant job to be done, the Buzzard of Kabul was the go-to man. "Take the back corridor then."

Sarychin took fifteen minutes with paperwork and then reached into the desk drawer and liberally applied some cologne.

His nerves were shot after the unexpected visit, if the General could have some fun, why couldn't he? Perhaps he should offer a shot or two of vodka to loosen this woman up, what else were these rear echelon types good for anyway? He'd have her crawling on the floor within minutes.

"Send her in," Sarychin said over the intercom and dug out the necessary folder from among the stacks piled on his desk.

The door opened and shut. Sarychin looked up and felt a visceral dislike crawl up and down his spine at the sight of his next visitor.

She was tall, he didn't like tall women, though the blond cascade of hair that barely met military requirements was eye-catching. But there was nothing submissive in the fierce blue eyes that met his or the picture perfect salute she snapped. He had to look down immediately, she had the thousand yard stare of a combat veteran.

"Sit down, comrade Warrant Officer," Sarychin said. "Welcome to Kabul and congratulations on your adventures which have the General Staff in an uproar. The General has asked me to review the situation and make a decision on Major Sokolov's request."

"I prefer to stand, comrade." Balalaika stood at attention by the offered chair.

"Right," answered Sarychin. To cover his confusion he dived straight into the papers spread before him. He peered at them through the lenses of his glasses. "I see we've something in common, we're both graduates of Ryazan. I commend you for being immediately transferred out of that cesspit. The Airborne is nothing more than a dumping spot for the hoodlums of our society. Then you served in a variety of posts so unmemorable they're not worth the mention."

"I disagree," Balalaika said heatedly. "The Airborne are the finest troops in the Soviet military."

"I didn't ask for an opinion. Very well then, I had a political officer dig up your record, and quite a record it is. Sofiya -, daughter of Irina Volkhov, granddaughter of Marshall Volkhov; what an illustrious ancestry. Oh, what's this?

Sarychin looked up with an evil smile.

"You're the daughter of THAT Pavlov, the one who defected to the West in '68? During the intervention in Czechoslovakia? This is serious, very serious indeed. Quite a blotch to the family reputation, it certainly raises questions about loyalty to the Party."

"I only ask I be judged by my performance," Balalaika said stiffly. He pressed on.

"Let's look at your recent exploits that has everyone out of sorts. Disobeying a direct order to wait for transport in Takshent and putting the five women under your command at risk by hitchhiking across Northern Afghanistan. Almost getting them all killed in that unfortunate incident at the Salang Tunnel. Is this true?"

"Yes comrade," said Balalaika.

"Then when the two officers of the convoy you're traveling with get killed during an ambush, you took command of the entire company and fought your way out of the mountains on foot with suffering further losses. Engaging – and destroying all bandit groups who attempt to pursue - impressive! The soldiers of the Airborne so taken with these exploits they now call you 'Balalaika!'"

"All true, comrade." said Balalaika.

"What's this nonsense about the missing Romanian? She was rescued from the clutches of the Mujahideen bandits? That reads like fabulist tripe favored by our bourgeois enemies."

Sarychin looked up with a glare as a smirk faded from the woman's face.

"Major Sokolov has submitted a battlefield commission and re-assignment to the 138th with a promotion to… Second Lieutenant. His written comment on the side here is – and I repeat, 'I need this woman, she can fight.' The General thinks the Major has lost his mind. What does Sokolov think this is, the Great Patriotic War?"

"I can't answer for the Major," Balalaika replied.

"Out of the question," Sarychin tossed aside the report, the sheets of papers spilled off the desk and onto the floor. "Women are simply a decoration to the armed forces, not combat soldiers. The most I can guarantee is maybe an Order of the Red Star and an immediate discharge from the armed forces. Go home and give inspirational speeches to the Young Pioneers at cookie bakes or something."

"Comrade," Balalaika said flatly as if she hadn't heard his verdict. "Major Sokolov has submitted the required papers. All I need is a signature and I will take up my assignment with the 138th immediately."

Sarychin raised his eyebrows. "You're dismissed."

Balalaika did not move.

The expressionless stare she bent on Sarychin did not waver for an instant and grew oppressive as the awkward minutes crept by. Sarychin sighed in irritation. The urge to crush and humiliate this upstart woman grew in his thoughts till he decided to act upon them. So he stood up and moved around the desk to stand behind her.

"Perhaps we can come to an agreement," Sarychin said and placed a hand upon her shoulder. Balalaika did not move though his breath stirred strands of the blond hair upon her neck. "If you're nice to me, I'll be nice to you. Otherwise, I'll ship you right now back to Russia and on my specific orders have you confined in a pyschiatric ward indefinitely. Do you understand peelotka?"

"I understand, comrade," Balalaika said calmly.

"Very good," panted Sarychin stepping closer. He let his hand slide down towards her breast. But to his surprise she suddenly gripped his wrist in an iron clasp.

"I understand exactly what I must do," she said. And before Sarychin could react Balalaika had driven back her hip into his waist and flipped him onto the floor. The speed of the violence caught Sarychin off guard, there was no opening given him to protect himself from the onslaught. Balalaika dropped down and slammed an elbow into his solar plexus.

Sarychin gasped for air and flopped about. Balalaika rose to her feet and stepped to the desk. Major Sokolov's commission was beneath the Makarov, she brushed the gun aside.

"No _Chekisti_ scumbag's going to tell me what I'm going to do," Balalaika said. A kick directed below Sarychin's rib in the vicinity of the kidney elicited a muffled gasp. "As I suspected, no matter how bad I hurt you, you won't dare cry out because of the Afghan guards. What would our Afghan allies think of a man who can't handle a woman? You'd be the laughingstock of Kabul in short order."

"You fucking bitch," Sarychin gasped when he regained his breath. "I'll break you for this."

"Stop whimpering," Balalaika said. Another well placed kick to the ribs followed and then another. Sarychin was in pain. His body wouldn't respond, he lay helplessly holding back on the overwhelming urge to cry out. "We can do this all day or you can sign off on my commission. I can call the guards in anytime if you won't."

"No, no," Sarychin submitted at last. "Give me my pen."

"I want the signature legible," demanded Balalaika. "I can wait a moment for you to recover – a bit. But first there's something I need to tell you."

She knelt down beside Sarychin and laid the commission and the pen by the nearest outstretched hand.

"How dare you threaten me, the last of the Volkovs, with the Gulag!" Balalaika said in a tone that thrust cold terror through his chest. "To serve my country is all I've ever wished, and I won't let a spineless, pervert of a paper shuffler get in my way. If the particulars of this meeting ever get out, I'll come back and finish what I started no matter the cost. I'll do the breaking, not you. Are we clear?"

Sarychin nodded. Slowly, and in great pain he wrote his signature.

Balalaika paused at the door with the commission clutched triumphantly in hand.

"One more thing," she said. "I thought about kicking you in the balls, but it's not worth the effort. Based on what I've seen, the Buzzard doesn't have a pair. For your sake, I hope we never meet again, Major Sarychin."


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

**1987**

**

* * *

**

**1**

Her name was legend, but only in Afghanistan.

"Our convoy was ambushed in Khunar," one soldier told another in a shallow trench on some unnamed hill. They huddled together for warmth. "The bandits had us in their sights. We were all dead men, but then Balalaika came over the ridge."

In Moscow, the geriatric leadership loudly proclaimed the achievements of the international effort. Newsclips played on the evening news showing Russian soldiers cheerfully building orphanages for their Afghan compatriots. The broadcasters never mentioned why the orphanages were full.

"We dug in south of Sheberghan," said the transfer back in the barracks. He shared a joint with his new squad. "We were seriously fucked! We couldn't hold out any longer. It was Balalaika. No one knows where she came from with those Desantniki of hers, but I'm here and still alive."

An official announcement was made from the highest levels of the Politburo. Only six soldiers had died so far in the last nine years. The military and their families knew it was a charade. Almost 15,000 killed in action with no end in sight. The seriously wounded were hidden away in military hospitals and forgotten.

"So what's the deal with your captain?" said the hard faced stranger seated against a corner wall in the crowded bunker. He downed the camp brewed vodka in a single swallow. "That's one hell of a woman, she saved my ass out there. I'd like to check out hers."

The atmosphere in the bunker grew hostile. Boris and Lieutenant Chaikin rose to their feet with clenched fists.

"Stand down comrades," the stranger said calmly. "I see how it is."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Chaikin said with a glare. There were no markings on the stranger's dusty uniform.

"None of your damn business," said the stranger.

No one in Moscow wanted a hero. There was no war in Afghanistan. Her exploits and fame were censored. Balalaika did not exist.

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"Who was he?" Major Sokolov asked as they made their way through the barracks of the camp, one last sweep before the changing of the guards. They walked side by side.

"Osnaz, probably Zenit, his papers checked out," Balalaika answered. Her breath swirled around her and drifted upwards. The cold night sky was solid with stars and a rising scythe of moon. "I didn't ask anything else. Chaikin had no idea the trouble he could have started."

"What the hell is an Osnaz doing in our zone," said Sokolov sharply. "Oh, the hell with it, what do I care where the Chekists sends their pet killers?"

"He's going right back over the border," said Balalaika, her tone neutral. She listened for his reaction, but Sokolov shrugged his giant shoulders in dismissal.

This war's over," he said. "All we have to do is keep our heads down till demob. Will you try out for the Olympics again?"

"Perhaps," Balalaika answered absently. The places where the moonlight touched the sand glowed white like snow.

Sokolov stuffed his hands into his pockets and crooked a smile at her. "Have you finally grown tired of talk or am I just that boring?"

She shook her head. "Neither. I'm thinking too much tonight."

"Nights like this make us all thoughtful." Sokolov stopped and tipped his head back to take in the stars. "They would follow you to hell, you know... the men."

"But I would do all that I can to keep them from it," she said.

"You are remarkable."

"No." She returned his smile. "I do what I must."

He looked her in the eye. "Don't play modest with me, of all people. You do what no one else can do."

As tall as she was, Solokov towered over her and he outranked her, but his tone was kind and his expression soft. Balalaika had not been expecting this sudden rush of affection. The dozens of men in their combined command looked at her with a zealous sort of adoration every day, but this man respected her. He saw her for who she was.

The effect was breath-taking, but the moment passed.

Solokov resumed their final lap of the camp, and Balalaika fell in beside him. She was not aware that she had followed him to the trailer outside the helicopter hangars until he pushed passed her to open the door. The light spilled out from the trailer, yellow and warm and inviting.

"Would you please come into my quarters, Vladilena?" asked Sokolov and held the door open. "I've got real vodka and some sausages from back home."

The invitation caught her off guard, she hadn't been called by her real name in years. "What are you getting at?"

"It's better than those rotten potatoes and cabbages at the mess hall," Sokolov said.

Balalaika almost accepted the offer and then caught herself. She tried again. "Would this courtesy be extended to Sergeant Boris if he stood here instead?"

"I'm afraid not," said Sokolov with his crooked smile. "I wouldn't share the sausage." He touched her elbow. "Please, come inside."

Balalaika jerked her arm back and covered the fearful abruptness of her gesture by reaching up to adjust her beret against the rising wind.

Sokolov blinked, not understanding.

"Do I even have to say why?" she said.

"Perhaps you should," said Valery, determined to press the issue. "The war's going to end, Vladilena. What then? When the guns are silent and you're all alone in a Moscow flat - nothing to show but a cheap medal or two gathering dust in a box, what happens then? The army won't keep you. They're scared of this Balalaika you've become – the merciless angel who rides upon steel chariots to the fray."

"Why Comrade Major," said Balalaika. "I had no idea poetry was a passion of yours. I admit I've no interest in words, only deeds."

Embarassment choked Sokolov's reply. She meant to shame him, but it hurt to do so. Balalaika stepped back from the light. "

"When the officers drink, I remain sober. When they hire in girls, I stay outside like a sheepdog, forever on watch. I am Balalaika, and I can't be like you men. It's better if I am alone."

Sokolov shrugged, attempting to regain his composure. "Solitude's a piss poor comrade, don't you think? I'm not trying to make you less than you are. Do you want me to say it? I don't want pleasure. I want you."

Balalaika set her features against him. "I've enough problems with political deputies like Sarychin, the asshole of Kabul. I can't afford to have anyone question my abilities as a commander. Even now, I'm sure someone is watching right now as we stand in front of your quarters. The men gossip for lack of anything else to do."

Sokolov tightened his jaw. "Then you won't have me."

Her answer was crisp. "No."

He positioned himself so he stood silhouetted in the light spilling out the door, so any one watching could see him clearly. He snapped out a salute. "Very well Captain, get what little sleep you can."

Balalaika returned the salute- smart and sharp.

"I serve the Soviet Union," she said.

The door closed between them. "I'm not going back, not to that," Balalaika thought and realized she had spoken out loud.

The walk back to her quarters took longer than normal.

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"Twice now these bastards, this Arab brigade, have ambushed our men and slipped across the border where we can't follow," said Lieutenant-Colonel Babushkin. He looked round at the closely asembled group of Airborne and Spetsnaz officers. "Martyanov's company was completely wiped out. I want revenge."

"40th Army won't allow us within five kilometers of the border," said Sokolov. He pointed at a location at the map. "The _dukhi_ have a major base in the Krer Valley, twenty miles south of Asadabad. It's right across the border where we can't touch them... or these Arabs."

"Fuck the niceties," shouted Babushkin. "This is no way to fight. Central bleats about glasnost while we get slaughtered because of rules and regulations! As long as they keep shooting at us it's still a war."

"Permission to speak," said Balalaika from the back.

"None needed," said Babushkin with a grin. "We're all brothers, and sister, here. Step forward Captain, if you've something to say."

"Lines on a map only exist because someone draws them on a piece of paper," Balalaika said. "The enemy thinks they are safe here because we are held back by "international" rules. I say enough, there is only one rule, the enemy dies. If Osnaz operators can cross the border, so can Airborne and Spetsnaz. I say we launch a raid. Once we begin, 40th Army will have to back us up – as long as we succeed in destroying the bandit base quickly."

"My thoughts exactly," burst out Babushkin. "A surprise attack the _dukhi_ won't expect. We'll catch them unawares and destroy their base and be back across the line before the Pakistanis can react. This is the kind of mission we've trained for."

"We attack from the air," said Balalaika. "Rely entirely on the Hunchbacks to carry us in and out of the battlefield. We shouldn't be at the mercy of the terrain and these outdated maps."

Sokolov coughed. "The 66th in Jalalabad had an outbreak of hepatitis among the pilots – and the engineers. They barely can put twenty helicopters in the air. We'll have to do the main strike on the ground."

"We've done recon," said Babushkin to Sokolov. The Spetsnaz LTC looked on with approval as Balalaika indicated points on the map to the gathered officers. "We'll do a land and air raid then. This can be done."

A line furrowed Sokolov's brow. What was Balalaika doing? Why was she playing along with Babushkin? Nothing good was going to come of this.

**2**

Seated among the flight crew in the lower canopy of the Mi-24V gunship, Balalaika monitored the assigned frequencies through the head-set. She kept radio silence as the formation of helicopters plunged into Pakistan, hugging the mountainous terrain to avoid radar detection. They had gone wheels up at 0500 and would catch the sunrise at the right moment.

"This is Falcon Base, Hummingbird on the air. Situation report. Over."

The voice came through loud and clear over the static and the overwhelming noise of the rotors beating overhead. Balalaika almost broke a smile hearing Mirela's familiar voice until she heard the response.

"Falcon, this is Tiger Leader. 1st and 2nd companies suffering losses, they're pinned down on the approach. Heavy resistance encountered by the 138th. Request gunship and medevac immediately for wounded. We have Russians dying. Over."

"They knew we were coming," muttered Balalaika. She shook her head. No plan survives contact with the enemy and already the land assault is in trouble, she observed silently. There had been no surprise, the Mujahideen had been waiting in fixed positions all along the ridges for the Soviet attack. Something had gone terribly wrong.

"_All the gunships I can get will be at your disposal," Babushkin went on. "The most important part of the mission is to be carried out by you and your Desantniki. We need a decapitation strike. Hit them hard here…" Babushkin jabbed a finger at the map, "…kill their leadership and they'll be crippled. These aren't Pashtuns, these are the Arabs. Don't fail us."_

"Tiger Leader, this is Falcon Base. Hold position. Over."

The only gunships in the area were the v-shaped formation of Mi-8's and Mi-24 thundering over the fractured landscape in Balalaika's wake. 40th Army command would waste time waiting for orders from Central. By then Babushkin and Sokolov's embattled formations could be overrun if the situation continued to get worse. Balalaika turned up the volume and grabbed the hand mike.

"Tiger Leader, this is Goose Leader reporting. Gunships are on the way. Over."

The pilot looked over, the question apparent even through the mirrored visor.

"Units 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 are to hold position on our wing," she shouted over the roar of the engines. "The rest are to break off and immediately provide air support for the ground assault."

"This is Falcon Base. Hey – who the hell are you? Get out of my tower!" The transmission was cut off.

"This is turning into a real goat fuck,"Balalaika cursed. She could hear nothing but static.

The Hummingbird was off the air, what that meant could only be guessed at. The majority of the helicopters were veering off as commanded and with them went Unit 7 with Boris and his squad – too late to order them back, she'd forgotten in the heat of the moment. She struggled out of the canvas seat.

"_What was that all about? Are you trying to start World War III?" demanded Sokolov._

"_The Colonel wanted a course of action. I suggested one," she said._

"_And you knew Colonel Babushkin would approve," Sokolov shouted. "We're days away from going home and you want to create an international incident? What about keeping the men out of harm's way?"_

"_This war is the only thing I have,"_ _she shouted back. "This is my home and they're my soldiers. They'll do what they're told!"_

"There's been a change of plans," Balalaika told the pilot. "Drop down, pull the guts out of this machine if you have to for more speed. Get the sun behind our back."

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

The desantniks eyed Balalaika uneasily as she lurched back into the cabin. Several of the men had thrown up and the interior smelt like vomit. No matter how familiar one was with helicopter flight, the experience was never pleasant. The pilots pushed the choppers to the limit, almost 241 kilometers an hour. They kept to within 8 meters of the ground so none of the _dukhis_ could react in time with one of the dreaded American Stinger missiles.

"Listen up," she said. "We don't have the manpower. I had to send half the Hunchbacks off to help comrades Babushkin and Sokolov. The bandits knew we were coming."

"Are we aborting the mission, Captain?" Lieutenant Chaikin leaned forward. The stub of a foul smelling Belomor cigarette dangled from his lip. He'd finished smoking long ago.

"No," she told them. "We're going right in. Like an invincible sword, we'll thrust right through their heart. The crews are going to fire everything they have and drop right in the middle of the compound. What I want is destruction and domination. I don't have interest in anything else. Show no mercy."

"Coming up on the landing zone," the pilot's voice crackled in Balalaika's ear and she tossed aside the headset. She'd left her Dragunov back at base and carried an AKD and a Makarov semi-auto holstered at her hip.

There was a stomach churning lurch as they dropped over the ridge and a roar of heavy machine gun from the forward pod. The helicopter lurched as the full complement of missiles from the wing pylons was fired.

The desantniks scrambled to their feet, they braced themselves for landing.

"Open the doors, prepare for battle," she shouted.

The turbines whined in protest, the helicopter landed hard. Some of the men were knocked flat. They flung the doors open and the chalky tasting dust rushed in. Balalaika leaped out almost twisting her ankle. The draft from the rotors was enough to blow her over so she moved quickly away. The squads followed hard on her heels, weapons at the ready

"Go, go, go!" Balalaika shouted. In the swirling dust in front of her, figures moved. She fired the AKD from her hip and cut them down. All around the crack of Kalashnikov's told her the other squads were in action, but she needed to see what was happening. She kept running until she came up against a mud wall. The desantniks swarmed about and took up a defensive position. She could barely see the outlines of the adobe-like buildings ahead, all of them on fire.

"Platoon sergeant!" she shouted.

"Right here," said Menshoff, one of the older troopers on her right. He was panting like a dog, his eyes staring bright out of his dust covered face.

"We need to get clear of the helicopters, or we'll be shooting each other," Balalaika said. "Take your squad, go right. Lieutenant, follow me. We're going straight into those buildings."

They rushed forward out of the clinging smoke. Scattered about the courtyard were bodies and body parts. But she couldn't spare a look around at the carnage, her attention fixed as the door to one of the building flew open and people staggered out.

"No, no," Balalaika shrieked. But it was too late, all around her the Desantniki opened fire. The women and children went down in a heap, blood splattering back upon the walls.

"Cease fire, damnit!"

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"Our intelligence was wrong," insisted Chaikin. "Who gives a shit if we killed some bandit auxiliaries, Captain. It happens all the time."

Balalaika sat down heavily and cradled her head. "Lieutenant, we're in Pakistan. This is a refugee camp, I've made a horrible mistake. We should have landed outside the village and scouted it properly instead of blowing it to hell. A few extra minutes, that's all it would have taken."

Moments ago Menshoff and the other squad sergeants had reported in. A search of the smoldering ruins had turned up no sign of the Arab fanatics. The dead were all women and children.

"Get the bodies in a pile," said Balalaika dully. "Douse them in gasoline and set them on fire. Then we need to get the hell out of here and back to base."

Nearby, one of the desantniks bent down to check a body. Suddenly he yelled, "This one's alive!"

Balalaika looked up as the soldier jerked a girl, perhaps seven years of age to her feet. She'd been lying alongside her mother in the vain hope the Russians wouldn't notice.

"I'll take care of it," said Chaikin and walked over. He raised a Makarov and placed it to the girl's head. Balalaika scrambled to her feet.

Balalaika struck Chaikin's arm aside. The girl screamed as the gun fired. She pulled the trembling child away.

"Comrade captain, what are you doing?" protested Chaikin. "What we've done here is a war crime, we can't leave any witnesses. Those are our standing orders."

"Not her," snarled Balalaika and held the girl tight. "She lives."

"Who's the one who told us no mercy?" shouted Chaikin "Do you think this mongrel Pashtun's going to thank you? We've just killed everyone in this village!"

Balalaika opened her mouth to speak. There was a blinding flash, the air was burning hot. The explosion lifted Balalaika and the girl and slammed them into the ground. Everything was black as night and then turned to a rusty orange shade. Balalaika kept a grip on the girl's collar and tried to stand up. She fell back down and fought off the urge to throw up.

"The helicopters are hit!" she heard someone shout and dimly saw Chaikin kneeling down by her side. Above in the sky the swept back shapes of Pakistani F-4 Phantoms banked away over the mountains. There was another explosion, and another.

**3**

"Casualty estimates, helicopter status," said Balalaika automatically. "Have we established any radio contact with base?"

She had pulled herself up onto the low rooftop of a still standing building. From there she was looking south down into the valley plain with the binoculars. Everywhere she looked there were trails of dust; all headed towards the village. In the far distance, hidden behind the northwest ridges, she could hear the faint sound of explosions and gunfire. Babushkin and Sokolov pinned down against the main force. She couldn't worry about them.

"Twelve dead, twenty wounded," replied Chaikin scrambling up beside her. "Only one of the Mi-8s can lift off. The rest are junk. Base does not respond to calls."

Half the attack force incapacitated. The Pakistani planes could return at any moment and destroy the last helicopter. The desantniks would be stranded. If she hesitated further, they would be overwhelmed by the approaching mujahideen columns.

"We're on our own. I want the wounded on the chopper," she ordered, making rapid calculations in her head. At best she could get all the wounded and one squad out now. "Unload everything, including rockets and ammo. Get as much weight off that thing as possible. I want it airborne now before those jets make another run at us."

The soldiers sprang into action. Balalaika leaped off the building and almost fell.

"You're wounded," said Chaikin. She looked down; her pants were shredded and bloodstained. The shrapnel embedded in her legs was beginning to hurt as the shock from the blast wore off.

"I'm good," she shrugged off his concern and grabbed the girl. She'd been huddled against the base of the building, too terrified to move. Balalaika finally spared her a glance and was surprised to see the child was blond haired. An unusual trait, had Alexander's army been through here thousands of years ago?

The turbos powered up with a whine and the rotors began to spin on the remaining helicopter. They ran through the burning wreckage with the girl in tow. The desantniks were moving the most critically wounded onboard, too slowly.

"There's no time," she yelled. "Throw them in. Chaikin and first squad, you're going. You have to go, you have to go now!"

"Captain," protested Chaikin. She reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Look at me, Piotr," she said and the lieutenant met her stare. "Get the wounded out of here. I want you to take the girl, I won't leave her behind. And when I get back to base, she'd better be there or your gambling debts aren't going to be the only concern you have. She's not to be tossed out during the flight. Are we clear?"

"Yes, comrade captain," said Chaikin, he knew better than to ask why. "But I will gladly give up my place. Let me lead the men out."

"I leave no one behind," said Balalaika tersely. The twelve bodies of the desantniks lay nearby in a row among the scattered dead of the Pashtuns. The words turned to ashes in her mouth. The chopper was already overloaded. She turned away.

Moments later the Mi-8 transport rose slowly above the destruction and struggled north.

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"Only weapons and ammo," Balalaika said to the remaining desantniks outside the village gates. "Drink the canteens dry and lose them. Get rid of the rucksacks. We're going for a run. The border's ten miles away, and the shortest path is straight ahead."

"What about the mountains?" someone protested.

"We're airborne," she retorted. "We'll leap right over all obstacles. Now move."

Balalaika began to jog across the uneven terrain and they spread out behind her like a herd, it didn't matter – there were no minefields here in Pakistan.

_This is how must have been long ago,"_ she thought. "_The Tatars riding fast behind on an open steppe, the villages burning, a last prayer choking in your mouth."_

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

It was late afternoon, with the sun hammering the desantniks down. Balalaika's throat was dry as bone, thighs cramped and screaming with each step up the steep slope. The socks of her boots soaked through with blood. The soldiers labored in silence except for the breath ripped out of their lungs. Six hours of running with the enemy hard at their heels.

The mujahideen were on top of the ridge waiting. They opened fire, the snarling roar of Kalashnikov's on full auto, their aim wildly inaccurate. But enough struck true; around her the Desantniki fell and rolled down the slope. One dropped before her. His lower jaw was shattered, he choked on chunks of bone and blood. She stepped over and kept going.

"Come on," shouted Balalaika. She picked up the fallen soldier's AKD and opened fire with both guns from the hip, driving up the loose slope towards the mujahideen. Nothing mattered but getting to the top, the figures above her scattered and ran in confusion. The men followed with an "urrahh" bursting forth in triumph from dried out throats. The fallen were bayoneted in a savage frenzy.

Balalaika looked around and her cheer went stillborn. Her stomach clenched. They were on a road that ran the length of the ridge east to west. The ascent was jammed with vehicles coming towards them, pickup trucks loaded with black clad figures waving guns. The mujahideen had no fear of Soviet air power here in Pakistan, they could move openly.

Between a cleft in the ridges ahead she could see the gleam of the Kunar River, the border was beyond their grasp. There was nowhere to retreat to, more mujahideen followed their trail.

"Desantniki, airborne brothers," Balalaika said in the silence that gripped the exhausted few. "It has been an honor to be your captain. I could not have served with more valiant men. I will not surrender."

An RPG round crashed into the road before them, showering them with dirt and rocks.

"Take up positions and return fire," she said. "Make each bullet count."

The mujahideen came up the road on both sides. Balalaika and the desantniks took up what little cover they could find and opened fire. They were so close she could hear the sound of the bodies hitting the ground. As fast as one went down she shifted the barrel to another and pulled the trigger again, felt the butt stock slam into her shoulder with each shot.

They broke under the withering hail and fled from the desantniks. The magazine of the AKD was empty, so Balalaika reloaded. It was her last clip. She took out the Makarov and pulled back the slide. She put it down within easy reach on the gravel.

"Listen to them," the desantnik lying prone on her right said. She couldn't even tell who it was. "The Arabs knows you're here. Save the last bullet, captain."

Two hundred meters down the road, the mujahideen were regrouping around the parked trucks, using them for cover. The black clad ones, the Arabs were moving to the front. A jolt of adrenalin coursed through her in a nightmarish rush, she realized they were the ones shouting her name, a cheer that mocked the one she'd heard so many times before from her desantniks.

She heard the multiple screams of RPGs being launched, She saw the reddish flames as the rockets arced high overhead and began to fall back to earth. The Arabs were using the RPGs as mortars, the exposed Russians on the road were the targets.

"Fuck!" Balalaika heard someone yelp. "Here comes hell, comrades. Eat dirt and pray!" and then the blasts threw them about like rag dolls.

She was lying on her back staring into the sky. Her ears were ringing and when she looked about the world was out of focus. A hail of rock, sand and scraps of flesh pelted all about.

Balalaika rolled over and pushed herself to her knees, the metallic smell of the RPGs mixed with the stench of burnt bowels and hair filled her nostrils. All around the Airborne soldiers - her Desantniki - lay in a in a welter of broken limbs, shattered heads and spilt intestines.

_Dead,_ Balalaika thought. _All of them. I've failed. I was supposed to die, not them. _

_Where's my pistol?_

_I have to die. _

_Now._

The Arabs pushed aside the mujahideen and rushed forward, shouting, in a solid mass up the road, hands outstretched. They were no longer shooting. Balalaika couldn't find the Makarov, she'd lost it in the barrage. She scrambled over on hands and knees towards nearest bodies of her men. She wrenched free two of the small entrenching shovels they had kept for the forced march. Only weapons, she'd told them and these were weapons of last resort, one in each hand.

She swung the shovels like axes and took the first two out at the knees. When they fell forward with shouts of agony she slashed them both across the throats and lunged into the crowd. The shovels rose and fell with blinding speed. She used them as only she knew how. She left a trail of broken Arabs in her wake. Someone was shouting and she realized it was her.

"Kill me, you bastards!"

They came again from all sides. She spun about like a top, buried the sharpened edge of one of the shovels too deeply in the shoulder of an attacker and couldn't wrench it free of his collarbone, she had to let it go. He lurched forward and grabbed her in a crushing embrace. Blood bubbled forth from his lips and splattered her face. She pushed him aside and stumbled. A heavy blow struck her and she fell to her knees, and they were on her.

**4**

"They're coming back!"

The helicopters descended upon the runway in a giant flock, kicking up a hurricane of dust. Mirela stiffened and tossed aside the burnt out cigarette. She was nursing a black eye and a blacker temper, she'd been forcibly thrown out of the control tower when units of the 40th Army taken control of the base

All afternoon long the Airborne and Spetsnaz land units dribbled back from the cross-border raid. The men filthy, tired and angry at the setback they had suffered. The 40th Army conscripts stood aside in awe or helped haphazardly with the relief.

Mirela couldn't tell who anyone was in the brown fog engulfing the air field. She ran forward among the crowd. She struggled against the windblast that almost knocked her down as the engines started powering down. Everywhere she looked the wounded were being hustled off in stretchers, too many were dead. For five minutes she looked for a familiar face while choking on the thick dust and found Boris and his squad wearily walking away.

"Sergeant," she grabbed his arm. Boris had only a blank, emotionless stare to give her. "Boris, it's me… the Hummingbird. Where's Vladilena? Is she with you?"

He shook her off, "You bitch."

"What? What do you mean?" she said, shocked.

"We heard the chopper pilots calling back for assistance," Boris grated. "And all we got was 'we're not allowed to because of the international border.' You left us out there for the slaughter."

"That wasn't me," Mirela insisted frantically. "They threw me and my team out, look at my eye. I haven't been on communications since this morning. I've only heard rumors. Major Sokolov is dead, he's not coming back – they got him. 40th Army's sent somebody to take over until there's an official investigation. They're going to relieve Colonel Babushkin and Captain Balalaika of command, but she's not back yet."

The desantniks clustered around Mirela, lean and hungry. They smelled like animals. "Sokolov's dead?" said Boris softly. "Tell us everything you know, now."

Before she could speak further, a lone helicopter clattered towards the base. It made a wide arcing turn and landed hard further down the airstrip. None followed.

"That can't be good," said Mirela and joined the rush.

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"Reload and refuel," shouted Lieutenant Chaikin to the ground crew. The casualties were taken away by willing volunteers. He saw Boris and waved him over. "I'm going back. We have a sacred bond with the captain and the others left behind. Airborne is Airborne. We've got to bring them back."

"Not alone," said Boris. The assembled desantniks murmured their agreement. It was a statement.

"You men aren't going anywhere," a voice shouted. "This mission's over."

The officer who strode through the crowd, trailed by frightened looking conscripts, was unknown to them. His uniform was too clean to have seen combat this day. Chaikin and Boris exchanged glances.

"That's the one who threw me out of the tower," shouted Mirela in a furious voice.

"I'm Major Sarychin and I'm in command now," shouted the Buzzard. "All of you are confined to barracks till further notice. No one's going back for this Balalaika of yours. If she's been taken prisoner, then she's a traitor to the Soviet Union."

An angry stir took the crowd and turned it dangerous. They crowded the conscripts aside. Sarychin went pale and drew his pistol and shot it in the air. He hadn't expected this reaction. "This is a direct command from Central. You will obey."

Colonel Babushkin pushed his way through the enrage men and confronted Sarychin. "Are you the reason I didn't have any air support today?" His voice was a low, heavy growl.

"You're relieved of command," began Sarychin, but got no further. There was a heavy thud and he fell to the ground. Colonel Babushkin shook his hand ruefully.

"Siberia can't be much worse, I'm done for after this," Babushkin said. "As if I'd answer to a subordinate… they should have sent a general." He turned to Chaikin. "I heard everything. Desantniki, men of Airborne, you all look fucking exhausted and we took one hell of a beating today. You probably won't come back alive. But I won't stop you."

"We're going," repeated Boris, slamming a fresh clip into his AKD. "They won't be expecting us back."

There was a roar of approval from hundreds of throats. Soldiers rushed forward, men fought to have the honor to carry the fuel lines to the two choppers being prepared for takeoff, others ran to the supply dumps to bring back ammunition. The conscripts dragged away the unconscious Sarychin.

"Can somebody take this girl," complained Sergeant Menshoff. "I hate children, filthy little brat…"

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

If she was dead, how could she be here, how could she be?

The light was a hardship, a bright flickering that spit and buzzed. To go away would be easy, so she closed her eyes. A heavy grip dug into her hair and pulled her head back. The vicious blow split her lip.

She came back into the face. She could make out each separate hair in the dark beard, follow the dizzying track of the blood vessels in the intent eyes. She could taste his breath, as he spoke.

"Are you a virgin?" the words followed. The full lips were still. Someone was translating.

Was she a virgin? What to say. The question was absurd, so out of place she began to gather her thoughts with the greatest of efforts. Was this all the Arabs had to ask of her? What of her name, rank and mission?

"Russian, answer the question."

"Does it matter?" she spit. She felt a sharp blow to her stomach. She couldn't breathe, the wind knocked from her, she fell off the stool. Brutal kicks slammed into her ribs. She was helpless.

"Are you a virgin?" the insane question again. "We can't kill you if you're a virgin. Allah forbids the execution of a virgin."

She refused to answer. The unseen ones were all around.

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"I don't know where to go," said Lieutenant Chaikin. "I've no idea how to find her, I mean them."

The two helicopters beat back into Pakistan, hidden by nightfall, hugging the barely visible landscape to avoid radar detection and the Stingers.

"We land outside the village," Boris said without any hope, still determined to press on. "We spread out on foot, avoiding contact with the _dukhi_ at all costs till we meet up with the others. We can't let the Captain down."

"Over there," the pilot spoke and they saw the white flare arc out above the ridges.

"She's done it again," Chaikin said. His eyes gleamed with exultation. "Take us down fast, everyone for kilometers around saw that, they'll be swarming on us fast."

The helicopters touched down in the dried out bed of the wadi. Suspicious of a trap, the desantniks fanned out quickly, weapons at the ready. But there was no one waiting.

"What the hell's going on?" Chaikin asked, at his wits end. Boris shook his head

"Don't shoot comrades. I'm Russian," a voice rang out. A single figure slid down the bank of the wadi and moved carefully towards the helicopters with his hands half raised. "It took you blue striped hooligans long enough to get here. You made enough noise."

Chaikin risked a light and swore. "Osnaz, you bastard. I remember you. What are you doing here? We won't take orders from a Chekist, we're here for the Captain."

"I serve the Soviet Union, wherever I'm needed. And I know where your precious Captain is," the shadowed man shifted, and the Dragunov on his back gleamed. "Five kilometers, up on a hill fort. These Arabs may be holy shits, but the mujahideen sentries have smoked so much hash celebrating their victory today, I could have cut all their throats. But I need help. The leader of the Arab brigade is up there, it's my job to take him out. This is the command center you missed this morning."

"What about the rest?" Boris asked.

"All dead," was the callous reply. "A few tried to surrender. They got the 'Afghan' treatment. I couldn't do anything - I couldn't risk being detected."

"Why now?" Boris said. "Or are you only looking to hitch a ride back across the border?"

"I owe Balalaika one," said the Osnaz.

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

Balalaika lay on the dirt ground and tried to conceal her efforts. She was partially covered by a filthy wool blanket. Her breath was shallow and rapid. She was unable to control the convulsions that shook her abused body, she knew she was going to go into shock if she didn't act soon.

Her wrists were bound in front, but blood and sweat made the bonds slippery, she twisted the rope continuously, felt it loosen.

They were coming for her again, she could hear the voices. She would make the Arabs kill her this time; this would be her passion, her final deliverance.

"Only a witch could lead the hollow men," the now hateful voice translated. "A witch once possessed the prophet and he cast her out and called out the witch out for what she truly was: A demon. The faithful know how to deal with a demon."

It was too late, the ropes couldn't be undone. They held her down by strength of numbers, there were too many. Even with her blown out eardrums she heard the sound; like a pop and then a hiss. The smell of propane filled the cell. A blue flame flared from the end of a metal tube.

"Start with the demon's face, leave the eyes for last," the voice said.

Balalaika screamed, a scream of pain and wordless outrage.

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

Menshoff blew apart the gate with RPO rocket launcher and the Desantniki swarmed in. They tore through the hill-fort with an ease that had eluded them throughout the long, arduous day. Mujahideen stumbled out of the sleeping quarters and were instantly cut down. One of Menshoff's men had a flamethrower and lit those who ran like torches.

A grenade blew up and Chaikin went down with a yell. He held up a hand that was shredded bone, flesh and tendon and waved the men forward.

The Arabs came out to die. The fighting became hand to hand, a vicious brutal struggle. Boris found himself grappling with an opponent who was stronger and faster. A slash from the Arab's knife tore across his face, cutting diagonally down from the forehead to the cheek. The Arab leaped on him, Boris blindly slammed the stock of the AKD into the man's face, thrust the bayonet for the kill.

Boris wiped aside the blood streaming down his face. He saw the Osnaz run ahead and vanish into a building, he followed a step behind. The two charged down a poorly lit hallway and Arabs rushed out the doorway at the end with guns blazing. They were forced to take cover in a side room. Boris was frantic, screams echoed in the confines of the hallway and then came to an abrupt end.

The Osnaz leaped out into the hallway. The Makarovs in his hands boomed in a staccato pattern and the Arabs fell, so did the Osnaz. A shot took him in the head, the man's head bounced off the floor and his brains spilled out. Boris leaped over.

Boris charged the closed door with his shoulder and crashed through the flimsy barrier.

Three bodies lay scattered around the cell. A table had been knocked to the ground, a stool shattered into pieces. He stumbled on metal tools cast about the floor. The sickening smell of charred flesh permeated the closed space.

Boris prodded the nearest corpse. The man lay on his back with with his beard burnt off, his legs still twitching. A metal canister had been forced into the mouth, he realized the burning end of a propane torch had been thrust all the way down the man's throat.

Balalaika was curled in a fetal position behind the upturned table in a huge pool of blood. When Boris knelt down to touch her, she shouted and began to kick her legs as if running in place. Her lips were a pale blue, the closed eyelids white. When he began to turn her over gently, he saw the ruin of her face, the burns that stretched from her neck to her thighs. A broken strand of rope slid off her torn wrist.

Menshoff burst in. "The Chekist bought it. What the hell…"

"Make a stretcher, a blanket, anything," Boris commanded, blocking Menshoff's fascinated look. "The Captain's badly wounded, we need to get her to the chopper fast."

Balalaika opened her untouched eyes. For a moment there was recognition, then disapointment before the glimmer faded.

Still she spoke. Boris had to put his head close to hear the whisper of a little girl.

"I. Wanted. To. Win. A. Medal. For. Papa."

**PART ONE ENDS…**

**update: There had to be a continuity change: **Balalaika's real name is Sofiya "Sonya" Irininskaya Pavlovena, this detail is revealed in the light novel. The middle name may be wrong, but that's the closest translation anonspore could find. If Vladilena Vasilianov is her real name "when it was mentioned in full view of Japanese law enforcement, by a Russian guy who suddenly turned up out of nowhere with embassy plates just to pick her up moments after an obviously premeditated shootout that Balalaika herself initiated - isn't that a bit suspicious?"


End file.
